


Moving

by tarie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-24
Updated: 2014-06-24
Packaged: 2018-02-06 01:41:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1839703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarie/pseuds/tarie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moving isn't as much of a pain as Ron thought it would be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moving

“Oh, _gross_!”

“What’s the matter, Ron?” 

“There’s a _hairball_ under here, that’s what’s the matter! No, wait. There’re _two_ hair—no – one, two, three, four, FIVE! Five ruddy, matted, grimy _hairballs_ , Hermione!”

Wrinkling his nose in disgust, Ron began to scoot himself back out from underneath Hermione’s bed, not bothering to pull out the trunk he’d crawled in there for in the first place. How could he even think about things like trunks when there were nearly a half-dozen knotted balls of cat fur between him and the piece of luggage? His shirt inched up further and further on his frame the more he pushed himself backwards on the hardwood floor. It scraped his belly a little but he was willing to take a little discomfort as long as he could get away from being face-to-face with those damned hairballs.

The springs of the mattress just above his head squalled and moaned and he cursed under his breath as the sound flooded his ears. 

“Honestly, it’s just fur, Ron. It isn’t anything to fuss over. It’s _natural_.”

Grumbling under his breath, Ron wriggled completely out from below the bed and rolled onto his back, sprawling out on the floor. Closing his eyes, he stretched his arms above his head and laced his fingers together, resting his head there and taking a moment to think about all of this. Things were going to be different now that they had finished Hogwarts. 

Things were going to be different and new and exciting, Ron thought. For one thing, Harry, Hermione, and he had found a flat in London near Diagon Alley that they were going to move into that week. Tomorrow, actually. Well, tomorrow Ron and Hermione would move in. Harry had to stay at Privet Drive a few more weeks as a formality of sorts, even if he really didn’t want to be there one bit. Ron and Hermione planned to stop by Privet Drive after they had their own things settled into the flat to load up a good lot of Harry’s things and move him in by themselves. Truth be told, Ron almost preferred it this way. He and Hermione could get the flat all nice and finished and when it was time for Harry to move in he’d have an instant home. There wouldn’t be tonnes of boxes to unpack or things to put away; everything would be in its place and a _home_. This flat would really be the first home Harry’d ever known and Ron wanted it to be just right for him. He was already thinking of ways he and Hermione could arrange the various rooms so that Harry would like them and such. Just thinking about the day that Harry would be coming home for good was enough to turn his mouth up in a broad grin.

Besides moving away from their parents and such, the three of them were all starting new jobs soon. Hermione had landed a position at the Ministry on the Committee On Experimental Charms, Harry was to begin soon training to be an Auror, and Ron had gotten a position as an assistant to the Head of the Department of Magical Game and Sport. He’d been rather disappointed that his marks weren’t good for him to become an Auror but he reckoned that working for the Department of Magical Game and Sport wouldn’t be too dead terrible. If anything, he reasoned, he could easily get tickets to any Chudley Cannons game.

All of a sudden a lumpy, soft something bounced off of his chest and Ron snapped quickly out of his reverie. 

“Oy!” he grumbled, opening one eye and peering blearily up a mass of brown frizz that unmistakably was Hermione’s hair. She was standing on the edge of her bed, bend over and staring down at him, exasperation written all over her face. “What was that for?” Bringing one of his hands out from behind his head, he rubbed half-heartedly on the spot where he’d been hit. Out of the corner of his eye he spied a pillow; that must have been the culprit. 

“I did it,” Hermione replied slowly, feigning exceeding patience, “because you didn’t answer me when I asked you if you wanted to have dinner here when Mum and Dad get home from work or if you’d like to just have dinner at the Burrow with your mum and dad.”

“I dunno,” he replied, arching his back off the floor to stretch out some of his sore muscles. “It doesn’t matter to me, really. Whatever you want to do.”

“Don’t you have an opinion about _anything_?” Hermione huffed, crouching down and resting her hands on the tops of her knees.

“I do!” Ron countered. “I have opinions on things!”

“Like what?” Hermione asked, incredulous. “Name one instance where you formed a definite opinion about something that matters, not just whether or not you’ll have kippers or eggs for breakfast. I swear, if I weren’t around, you and Harry--”

“I decided not five minutes ago that hairballs are vile and dead disgusting and that ruddy cat of yours is--”

“There isn’t anything wrong with Crookshanks! It’s perfectly natural for cats to cough up hairballs, what else do you expect them to do with—oh, nevermind!” Tutting loudly, Hermione stood up quickly, her body wobbling a little from the unsteady footing the mattress provided. 

Ron wasn’t sure what she was doing. Maybe planning on going to the head of her bed and taking down the rest of the framed photographs she had on the wall above the headboard? Well, whatever she was thinking of doing, Ron was going to see to it that she didn’t get to do it. It was time to lighten things up a bit. Even if they were only bickering about her cat, Ron knew full well that tiny little spats like this one could quickly escalate into a huge all out row before he even realised what the sod was going on. No, Ron decided, he needed to take action. The last thing he wanted was to get on the outs with Hermione the day before they were to move into their new flat together.

Pushing himself up into a sitting position, Ron propelled himself at the bed, one hand reaching up and wrapping firmly around Hermione’s ankle.

“What are you-- Ron, let me _go_!”

She twisted this way and that, lifting her foot up and shaking her leg in an attempt to throw him off. He just laughed and shook his head.

“Sorry,” he said gravely, clamouring to his knees and manoeuvring so he could place his free hand at her waist. “I’m afraid I can’t do that.” 

And with that, he yanked Hermione Granger off of the bed and the two fell to the floor in a messy heap of tangled limbs, Ron’s own body breaking her fall.

“You—you—sneak!” she shrieked, red flaring up in her cheeks.

Ron grinned in response. “Is that the best you can do, Hermione?”

“Ooooh!” 

He couldn’t help but to laugh; the utter outrage on her face was too… _Hermione_. 

“Yes, as a matter of fact I _can_ do better, Ronald Weasley,” she informed him frostily as she twisted this way and that, finally gaining some leverage. One of her brows lifted ever-so-slightly and suddenly Ron felt like the collar of his shirt was way too tight. He’d vaguely thought about sticking a finger in there and pulling it out a little but instantly forgot about it when Hermione slung a leg on either side of his hips and looked down at him with a mischievous glint in her eyes.

Figuring he ought to say _something_ , Ron cleared his throat. “Yeh?”

“Yes,” Hermione confirmed, poking him in the chest with a finger to emphasis her point. “You _cretin_. You _git_. You _Falmouth Falcons_ lover, you.” 

Now, the cretin and the git parts didn’t really phase him in the slightest. Ginny’d called him those sorts of things for years. But the Falmouth Falcons part? Now that was downright dirty and untrue.

“Oy!” he cried, arching his back and shifting his hips from left to right in an attempt to throw her off. “That was a dirty rotten thing to say, now wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” Hermione said, “it was.” She raised her hips and then rocked them against his. 

In the back of his mind, Ron knew that she’d done that just to get him to stop squirming. But his mind wasn’t exactly in control of the situation here anymore.

“Oh,” Ron breathed slowly, screwing his eyes shut as a warm heat flared in his groin. Wanting to feel that friction again, he slowly brought his hips up and rubbed against her. Feeling out of sorts and like the sounds of their breathing in the room were nearly deafening, he mentally counted to ten, waiting for her to slap him, roll off of him, hex him, or some combination thereof.

But she did none of those things. 

Hermione did not slap him. Hermione did not roll off of him. Hermione did not hex him.

What Hermione _did_ do surprised the hell out of him.

She pressed her knees against his hips and ground herself against him.

“Oh fuck,” Ron panted, reaching up and grabbing onto the first part of her that he could find, pulling her down to him forcefully. In a matter of seconds they were jumbled together and their tongues were sliding together while hands traced contours of flesh that were not their own. 

He didn’t know what came over her, let alone what came over _him_ but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered to Ron right then save for the girl in his arms he’d been wanting to hold just like this for years. Nothing mattered but her and her warmth and the way she was making his cock strain almost painfully against his trousers. 

Her mouth was warm and wet while her hips were so very strong and thrusting against his in a rhythmn that was damned near making him see spots before his eyes. He groaned, flicking his tongue against the roof of her mouth and driving his own hips against hers. She writhed on top of him and then did something with her hips that felt absolutely mind-blowing.

“What,” Hermione breathed, doing that thing again and brushing a shock of hair out of his eyes.

“God—don’t—just—do that again,” Ron grunted before running his tongue along the column of her throat and lipping her earlobe. 

She did it again, moving her hips in what Ron dimly remembered was called a figure eight. It was too much, all of these sensations at once. He buried his face in the crook of her neck and rocked his hips against hers one last time before collapsing bonelessly beneath her. 

Closing his eyes, he felt Hermione’s soft hands cupping his face and he smiled a slow, tired smile.

“What?” she asked softly and he could just see the look of concern on her face.

“Nothing,” he murmured, feeling wet and tired and sated all at once. “Oh, wait.” He frowned. “I just remembered that I had an opinion on something else. Something that matters.”

“What’s that?”

Ron opened his eyes and grinned up at her. “Helping a best mate move isn’t so bad after all.”

Hermione laughed and leaned down, resting her forehead lightly against his. “And just think,” she said with a conspiratory air, “tomorrow I help _my_ best mate move.”

“You know,” Ron returned, using the same tone, “I think tomorrow just might be a brilliant day.”


End file.
